


drink up your movements (still i can't get enough)

by fortunatedaughter



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: F/M, consent is important kids, set during senior year meaning all parties are 18 and of age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-20
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-04 15:37:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11558223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fortunatedaughter/pseuds/fortunatedaughter
Summary: It starts with a text.hey, u goin to sammy’s party this weekend?MJ glances up from her copy ofAn Isolated Incident,lips pursing as she reads over Peter’s text. It’s not anything out of the ordinary – quite the opposite in fact. One of the things they do most is text, whether it’s memes from him or articles from her she thinks he might enjoy.the back to school one?His reply comes quickly. Fast texter that one.ya.Her lips purse.maybe. why?cause im goin and i want you thereAnd she hates how her heart leaps in her chest and her stomach flips, filling with butterflies a moment later. She hats how four words from her best friend and she’s reduced to nothing but a mess. MJ presses her lips together, trying in vain to smother the smile. She hates him. Hates him so much, for having this power over her. It’s so stupid.So stupid. Feelings for your best friend are just stupid.





	drink up your movements (still i can't get enough)

**Author's Note:**

> *peaks from behind rock*
> 
> hello? miss me? course not, no one in this fandom knows me lmao. but anyway, after an extended break from fic writing thanks to a ton of personal shit going on in my life, i'm here! (hello at the ones who follow me from fandom to fandom, y'all the real mvps!) imma apologise now if my characterisation of michelle & peter are off a little, but i'm taking some creative license here with the kiddos since in my fic they're 18 and older and they've seen shit together mmkay.
> 
> title is from the louvre by lorde.
> 
> anyway, friends, enough from me. enjoy!

It starts with a text.

_hey, u goin to sammy’s party this weekend?_

MJ glances up from her copy of _An Isolated Incident_ , lips pursing as she reads over Peter’s text. It’s not anything out of the ordinary – quite the opposite in fact. One of the things they do most is text, whether it’s memes from him or articles from her she thinks he might enjoy.

_the back to school one?_

His reply comes quickly. Fast texter that one. _ya._

Her lips purse. _maybe. why?_

_cause im goin and i want you there_

And she hates how her heart leaps in her chest and her stomach flips, filling with butterflies a moment later. She hats how four words from her best friend and she’s reduced to nothing but a mess. MJ presses her lips together, trying in vain to smother the smile. She hates him. Hates him so much, for having this power over her. It’s so stupid.

So stupid. Feelings for your best friend are just stupid.

_plus someone has to hold my hair back when i throw up from 2 much vodka_

_ha-ha_

MJ chews on her bottom lip, glancing up at her desk. She had hoped to get through at least two books tonight before she eventually passed out at 3am after ordering enough Chinese food for three people from the restaurant two doors down. (And maybe she’d sneak some of her Mom’s wine and maybe she’d drunk call Peter and say some sappy shit like she always does when she drinks red wine. Maybe.)

_ok, sure i’ll go. but i’m not holding your hair back when you puke, parker. leave that to ned aka your one true love._

_you wound me mj_

See, here’s the thing about her and Parker. MJ never actually set out on crushing on the guy, nor did she actually expect to have any sort of concrete feelings. Sure, she had some vague, butterfly related feelings when they were all 15 and infinitely less qualified at emotions, but that all went away. They became friends. Her best friend. There isn’t anything she wouldn’t do for him and vice versa. She shared her books with him at lunch when Ned was out sick for two weeks with the nasty flu. He stopped by her apartment with chicken soup when she got the same flu the week after that. He got her a really nice mug with ‘ _smashing the patriarchy one cup at a time_ ’ scrawled on the side in bright pink letters. She got him an advanced copy of some stupid video game he wanted.

(“How the fuck did you even get this?” Peter questioned, his tone colouring with awe and disbelief. “I haven’t even heard about advance sales yet.”

MJ merely raised her eyebrows, mystery coming off her in waves. “A girl has her ways.”)

They were **friends**. The best kind of friends. Course, _that_ almost took a dive when MJ found out he was fucking Spiderman. She still flinches when she thinks about her behaviour during those three weeks – how she’d allowed her innate fear of losing him – of going to his fucking funeral because he wasn’t fast enough to miss a fucking bullet from some pissed off kid with a weapon – to turn into something dark and messy. (She was horrible to him. Yelling how he didn’t trust her and if he didn’t trust her – then why the hell were they even friends? He just stood there, a dark and stormy look on his face, stating she didn’t share much about her own life, either. Okay. They were both horrible to each other, but – MJ thinks they learnt from it. Grew from it.

Her heart still aches how two weeks after the fight she walked right up to him, hugged him in the middle of the hallway. Her heart nearly burst when his arms – with those biceps like tree trunks – came around her waist.

She sniffed. “I hate fighting with you.”

“I hate fighting with you too.” He muttered back.)

And here they are. MJ in the corner, pathetically crushing on her best friend like this is some episode of Glee and Peter, next to her, and probably utterly oblivious to her feelings.)

She stuffed her face into her pillow, groaning, book forgotten on her lap. This party was going to **blow**.

 

MJ ends up showing up to the party an hour and a half after it started. (What? She got really into a book and didn’t even realise what the time was. It’s the reason she’s only wearing jeans, a nice top and boots that were half-heartedly tugged on as she booked it out the door, tryna catch the train downtown. Never let it be said Michelle Jones doesn’t have good time management.)

A girl from her physics class presses a red cup into her hand. She disappears with a wink before MJ even has a chance to ask what the fuck this is and if she should even be drinking it. MJ glances down at its contents.

It’s bright pink. Bright enough to probably change the colour of someone’s puke. Lovely.

Taking a slurp, MJ delved further into the crowd, spotting Peter’s familiar mop of hair closer to the kitchen. Catching his eyes, she watches as a bright and happy grin blooms on his face.

See – it’s shit like this that he has to stop doing. Because the way he smiles at her, like her whole fuckign existance is enough to light up his whole world, that’s not what best friends do. And that’s all they are.

MJ jerked her chin towards the kitchen and he nodded. Moments later, Peter’s sliding in next to her as she sits on the counter top like this is normal for them, going to parties, partaking in underage drinking – even just being this up in each other’s orbit.

(MJ swallows down the butterflies, tells herself to get a fucking grip.)

“What are you drinking?” He questioned, frowning over at her cup.

“Uh. Good question.” She peered down at the contents, still bright pink, still probably going to stain her teeth for whatever the fuck was in there. She glanced up at Peter’s patronising look and blushed under his gaze. “Shut the fuck up. It tastes nice.”

“Well as long as it’s _nice_.”

MJ snorted. “Like you can talk. What are you drinking?”

He shrugged. “Whiskey and coke.”

“God, you’re such a cliché.”

“Peter!” A voice shouted and he glanced over, forehead marring in a horrible grimace.

“Ugh.”

She merely raised an eyebrow at him. “Mr. Popular tonight, huh?”

He shot her a look, shaking his head.

“What? I wasn’t the one in a people sandwich earlier.”

He ignores her, choosing to threw back half of his own drink. He doesn’t even hesitate when seconds later, he’s reaching over and giving her hip a squeeze. One of his fingers presses into the smooth skin where her shirt as ridden up slightly. “I’ll be back, kay? Don’t go anywhere.”

MJ has to remind herself to breath. “Yeah cause I _really_ can’t take care of myself in a party full of people we go to school with!” She called out over his retreating form. “Moron.” (She says the last word with far too much fondness for someone of her standing. Christ.)

With a shake of her head, she glances back down at drink – musing she should probably get a new one – when she hears a soft chuckle.

“You guys are cute.” A petite girl says, smile on her lips that clearly says things MJ just doesn’t want to deal with.

She arched an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“Sorry – just.” The girl shook her head, black wisps of hair falling into her eyes. “You guys are cute. Have you been dating a long time?”

MJ froze. “We’re not dating.”

“Oh I just assumed –“

“Well, we’re not.” She muttered, shifting her gaze away from the girl. Not that she doesn’t want to – it’s just. So much more complicated than anyone could ever think it to be. Peter’s her best friend. He’s seen parts of her that she’s only shown her Mom, that she has trouble even admitting to herself. Because that was the thing about Peter – you could trust him, with any secret, any part of yourself. He took the weight of the world on his shoulders for the sole fact that he feels that obligation, that duty.

And all because he had the misfortune to get bit by a fucking radioactive spider.

“Right.” The black-haired woman swallowed back whatever else she wanted to say, nodding softly. “You guys are really cute, though.”

She bid her retreat and MJ exhaled roughly.

It wasn’t just about looking cute though, was it? Who gave a shit about looks and aesthetics? She knew objectively that despite the idiom – people did judge a book by their cover, but at the end of the day it mattered what was in a person’s heart. Who they were when shit got tough, when it was hard to even breathe, let alone get out of bed for a shower.

 _And who is Peter_? A voice inside her head questions and MJ swallowed. Peter is… Peter is one of the best.

Her heart whooshed, beating painfully against her ribcage. What is she doing? Why is she doing this? It’s her senior year – and she vowed to herself that she wasn’t going to let anything else pass her by this year. She was going to take chances as they came to her; make memories, forge friendships, put herself out there. (As her Mom had told her, shutting herself off from the world was only feasible for so long. Shutting herself off from the world just because she was afraid –

‘ _Not every person you meet out there is going to hurt you, munchkin_.’ Her mom had said, pressing a kiss to her temple. ‘ _There are some good eggs out there too. Like that Peter Parker._ ’)

Good eggs.

With a swallow, MJ jumped off the kitchen counter. She pushed her way through the crowd, looking for Peter, dodging the boys who try to grab her attention, some of the friends she studies in the library with. She’s got one thing on her mind – one person. When her eyes catch on him, a grin threatens to break out.

He looks good – happy. Smiling, laughing softly. She like that look on him, likes how he looks free and open and like he doesn’t spend his nights masquerading as Spiderman, saving their city and all the cats from trees. He looks like Peter, her Peter. A regular old 18-year-old who likes video games and Star Wars, who’s wickedly smart at science and wants to do something with his life, he’s just not sure what, yet.

She takes a step forward, hesitant and unaware – what she’s doing… if it all goes wrong… she could very well loose Peter forever. The crowd shifts, revealing the person making him laugh and MJ’s heart drops.

Some pretty blonde stands next to him, hand on Peter’s forearm and she just – she feels so fucking stupid. She’s not the girl he flirts with, not the girl he laughs at and bites his lip while glancing at her from under his eyelashes. And she’s so fucking stupid for thinking it. (Isn’t this what she always does? Gets overly invested in shit, building people up in her mind? Takes a train of thought and goes off the fucking deep end – assuming that because it makes sense in her mind, because she’s smarter than the average moron with a Twitter account – the other person has to think the same, right? Wrong.

She’s so, so, so wrong.)

 

MJ sought out refuge in one of the bedrooms of Sammy’s family – or maybe it’s a spare. She doesn’t really care. It’s quite and clean and there’s a little balcony where she can get from fresh air. (And hope the frosty air of January will freeze her memories of Peter’s smile and his laugh and that damn sparkle in his eye, so she can shatter them and never have to experience them again.)

She thinks she’s almost used to the peace and quiet, spending the night alone, slurping down whatever drink she’d had pressed into her hand – when the bedroom door opens.

“Hey. There you are.” Peter grins, shifting inside, door closing behind him.

MJ closes her eyes, sighs heavily before taking a hearty sip of her drink. The liquor, - still pink and overly sweet – burns her throat, warms her insides against the cold. “Here I am.”

He shifts further into the room, joining her on the balcony. “Been looking for you for ages. When I got back to the kitchen you were gone.”

“Really? Cause I’ve been here. Not at all hiding.” The blonde flashes through her mind’s eye and she hates herself. She’s not the type of woman to hate other women just because they’re flirting with a guy she’s crushing on. And Peter’s not even hers and even if he was, how does she – why – her brain is a mess of self-loathing.

Fucking Peter Parker.

He frowned over at her. “You okay?”

Her lips pursed. “Fine.”

“MJ.”

“I’m fine, Peter.” A sigh leaves her, depressed and cracking around the edges. She’s heartbroken, like a wire pulled too tight and ready to snap at a moment’s notice. She can’t see him, not after her realisation. “Peaches and cream.” And because no one could ever accuse her of having _tact_ – “You should get back to your date. Don’t want her to get worried you’ve run off with the school shut in.”

His frown deepened. “Date?”

MJ finally looked over at him, one eyebrow arched, red cup of straight vodka dangling from her fingers. “Tall, blonde and beautiful?”

He’s still looking at her like she’s grown three heads – which, maybe she has, for all she’s acting like she’s in a damn Lifetime movie and the hunky love interest has just broken her heart. – when realisation dawns on his face. “Maggie?”

MJ closed her eyes. Maggie. _Maggie, Maggie, Maggie, Maggie._ She has a name to the face, probably with hopes and dreams. Did she want to go to Harvard like MJ did? Or did she want to go MIT like Peter? Did they like the same smoothies, the same fruits? Did she have the power to get his favourite video games before anyone else? Did fucking Maggie sit through his long discussions about Star Wars with Ned, thinking he never looked more like himself when he got that twinkle in his eye?

“Can you just go?” MJ murmured softly. “I wanna be alone.”

“MJ.” She can hear the worry in his tone, and look – she gets it. She’s not herself tonight. But she doesn’t care. She can’t do this, can’t be around him when it hurts to look at him like this.

“Michelle.” He murmured, voice firm and soft and just so – Peter. He hasn’t used her full name since that day at practice when she said her friends call her MJ. Her lips press together and she steals her heart.

Glancing over at him, her eyebrows arched and demanding. “Do you not understand ‘I wanna be alone’, Parker?”

But Peter must see something in her gaze – something that speaks more to her mood than she’d like because he shifts closer to her, eyes slightly narrowed.

(Christ, she hates how well he can read her. She was fine before he came into her life. She was fine without friends, with only her books for company. She was fine sitting four seats down, she was fine reading her days away and still acing her classes. She was fine. And then Peter comes along – with his stupid red suit and his saviour complex and his need to bear the whole weight of the world on his shoulders.

And now look at her. Fucking pathetic.)

“Fuck, it’s cold out here.” He muttered, supressing a shiver. “Let’s go inside, kay?”

Truth was she didn’t even notice – half a cup of the pink shit to drown her sorrows and she’s immune to the cold. Nodding slightly, she follows him back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She’ll have more of a chance kicking him out this way – claim some sob story to leave her the fuck alone, just long enough to get her damn feelings under wrap.

Her mouth opens and Peter shoots her a look. “Just – shut up for a moment, okay?” He murmurs and it’s MJ’s turn to frown.

The music outside the bedroom they’re in shifts – something slow and mellow, yet she can make out the subtle elements of sex in the bassline. Her eyes never leave Peter, even as he shifts closer to her. There are words caught in her throat – _what are you doing why are you doing this I love you_ – but nothing comes out.

He reaches a hand up, curling a stray piece of hair around the shell of her ear; his fingertips softly dragging over the smooth skin of her jawbone.

MJ can’t breathe. (If this is how she goes – Peter Parker touching and looking at her as if she belongs in the fucking _Louvre_ , like she’s the most precious thing he’s ever laid his eyes on? Well. She can think of worse ways to go.)

She swallows, feeling his thumb softly rubbing at the corner of her mouth. It all feels too real, too intimate – this Peter is so far from the one she knows, the one she sits next to in every third period English class, the one she watches argue about the merits of the Star Wars prequels. He’s so far from _her_ Peter yet, looking at him – seeing the soft gleam in his eye, the small quiver in his bottom lip, the loose curl of hair falling down his forehead – he’s her Peter. (Maybe he always will be.)

And MJ has to tell him. Has to tell him there are feelings caught behind her teeth, stuck in her throat – how she wants to make out with him to the shitty playlists she makes about him when she can’t sleep at 4am, how she wants to hold his hand in the school corridors and show every stupid asshole in that school that he’s hers and she’s his – how she wants to take him to all her secret bookshops in the city and her favourite places and even the ones where she can still feel her Dad, where she imagines he’s with her.

She wants everything and so much more and she has to tell him. “Peter –“

The rest of her words get caught behind her teeth because before she can let the feelings out, he leans forward, softly pressing his lips against her own.

Here’s the thing. There’s something about them that’s always felt inevitable. MJ isn’t sure why. Maybe it’s because there’s something about contrast – dark and light, rays of sunshine peeking through clouds; like magnets that can’t decide whether to attract or repel. But even in that indecision, there was inevitability. It coloured all their interactions, all their inside jokes, all the things they had in common – all of it screamed that they were heading somewhere, some place, together.

He pulls back from her after a moment, nervous and bashful, glancing up at her from underneath his eyelashes.

MJ blinks, heart in her throat. She swallows, inhales, exhales. Peter stares at her.

“I –“ He clears his throat, but the rasp of his voice dragging against her skin has her shifting, finding it far too attractive. (She imagines him muttering filthy things in her ear in that voice and it take all of her to hold back a whimper – the image sends a rush of heat to pool low in her belly.) “I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

“Okay.” MJ blinked again, her mind whirring. “Peter?”

“Yeah?”

Her teeth tugged on her bottom lip. “You can do it some more, if you want.”

For a moment, Peter doesn’t say anything. His eyes stay glued on her teeth tugging her bottom lip, before he nods, slowly.

The butterflies in MJ’s stomach magnify the longer he looks at her like that – like he wants to devour her whole, like just tasting her once isn’t ever going to be enough for him.

He moves back in, invading her personal space – finds she doesn’t mind giving it up when it’s Peter invading – pressing his lips against hers again. She exhaled against his cheek, allowing herself this moment. Her hands come up, tangling in his hair and before she can think about it – she tugs on the strands, just hard enough for Peter to grunt from somewhere deep in his chest.

The floodgates open and suddenly it’s no longer tentative presses of the mouth any longer – but harsh breathes, hands roaming, moans falling from lips. MJ can’t even think, can’t even breathe, her head filled with Peter, with the fact this is happening.

She’s dreamt about this for so long but now she gets him for real.

Before long, his shirt is off and she’s greedily running her hands along the cut of his abs, the smooth skin of his chest; feeling how his biceps ripple under her hands. His hips arch into her hers, seeking friction and she moaned, - hoping without thought and in vein no one plans to walk past this bedroom anytime soon.

His hands clutch at her hips, hard enough she might wonder if there’s bruises tomorrow. In response, her blunt nails scratch down his back, digging in and he grunts again. (If he’s going to mark her she sure as shit is going to mark him.)

But then she figures – standing upright like this, touching him like that, him kissing her like that – it’s not really feasible. “Bed.” MJ mutters against his lips, and before she can breathe or blink – her back lands on the soft mattress and Peter’s tongue is in her mouth again.

Peter’s hand dips up her shirt, smoothing along her skin and MJ can’t think. His lips kiss a path along the column of her throat and need floods her desperately. But the liquor muddles her thoughts, makes her wonder how much of this is fuelled by liquid courage versus that of actual feelings.

“Wait, wait, wait.” She breathes, arching into his touch, eyes screwed shut. God – she never wants him to stop but he has too or she’s going to lose her mind.

Peter pulled back, lips red and kiss bruised, staring down at her with a burning gaze. “What – you, you okay?”

“I just –“ She exhaled, shifting under him. God, she can feel his erection against her hip – and she wants that, the press of him against her, wants the first slide of his cock inside her because the first press is always the best – but. She swallows, and pretends she isn’t this pathetically desperate for him. “I wanna sleep with you.”

“Okay.” He frowned, pulling out the word slowly. She doesn’t blame him – wasn’t that what they were going to do anyway?

“Just – not tonight.” Her lips are bruised from all their kissing and it stings to bite at them but – old habits die hard.

Peter nodded slowly, his thumb swiping back and forth across a patch of skin where her shirt’s ridden up. “Okay. Can I –“ He hesitated, frowning down at her. He looks so much like his fifteen-year-old self like that, boyish and sweet and nervous – before he spent a summer away upstate with Stark and came back different to the point people decided he was, what – _worthy_ now or something stupid. (MJ’s always known he was worthy – has known since he showed up on her doorstep with fucking chicken soup. And maybe even long before that, when he fucking climbed up the Washington Monument to save their friends.)

“Can I use my fingers?”

She nods slowly, the alcohol sloshing around in her stomach. She knows that at some point, she’s going to want more with Peter. She’s going to want so many firsts with him. She’s going to want sleepovers and exploring the map of his body with her tongue. She’s going to want making out in the library stacks and she’s going to really want him to go down on her. And she’s going to want family dinners with his Aunt and she’s going to want to tell him all about the horrible fucked up shit of her past, the stuff she’s always kept close to her heart.

But tonight, when everything has happened so fast it still feels new and raw – no, not tonight. But **soon**.

MJ was afraid she might have killed the mood, slowing them down, but Peter merely kisses her again, parting the seam of her lips with his tongue, kissing her deep and dirty, fucking filthy - in a way she didn’t even know she liked to be kissed. Before long, her breath is coming in pants, her hips arching up and knocking against his own, and she’s warm – too warm.

(He’s going to fucking _ruin_ her.)

She pulls back slightly, just enough to tug her shirt up and off, throwing it in some corner – revealing the plain black bra she’d thrown on when she left the house. Her tongue bites her bottom lip in hesitation. Peter can’t seem to take his eyes off her.

“Fucking gorgeous.” He mutters, reaching up to press his lips to hers again with fierceness and MJ smiles into the kiss. Her cheeks burn like the sun and yeah – yeah, she loves him. She’s also totally gonna have her wicked way with him once she’s a little soberer and forced him to sit down and have The Talk.

She arches her back just enough that he can reach behind, undoing her bra and – he does it one move. One. Peter fucking Parker. (She’s been with boys who couldn’t figure out the clasps even when they were staring at them, and god how it killed the mood but no, not Peter fucking Parker.)

“Smooth. Where’d you pick that skill up?” He’s not really paying attention, of course, too enthralled with the fact she’s shirtless under him currently, all his – and well. MJ can’t blame him. She’s pretty awesome.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” He mutters, eyes darkening.

(And look, okay, she’s not stupid. She’s the opposite, in fact and far too observant for her own good sometimes. She’s known that Peter’s hooked up with the girls from their school; did she really believe he just ran into an old friend and got to talking at that Homecoming rally? _Please_. She saw the hickey under his collar. But the fact of the matter is – it stings, a little and she hates that it stings, that she’s always had this vague possessiveness over Peter, like she can’t share him with anyone else. She’s not that person, never has been and never will be.

But she might be slowly coming around to the idea that Peter Parker is the exception to all her rules.)

MJ doesn’t reply – can’t when his head ducks down, pressing a soft, barely there kiss to the curve of her breast. A moment later, he nips at soft flesh, biting at it, working the skin with his tongue and – fuck. He’s going to leave a hickey.

(He’s marking her and she hates – hates that it makes her whimper, makes her wet and open the cradle of her thighs wider – accepting him in.)

“Peter.” She whimpered.

“Michelle.” He mutters into her skin, her name sounding like a prayer and a plea all in one.

His hands are curling into her hips, pressing hard as he laves at her, and he shifts, tongue coming to dart around her nipple, pebbling it. She gasps out, the sound tapering off into a moan. A second later, she reaches up, tugging at his hair. _More_.

He doesn’t reply – because the two of them have always been weirdly in sync, in ways that used to scare her but now just makes her feel safe, like she’s got someone, like she’s got her person – and he moves to undo the top button of her jeans.

Her eyes are hooded, open and staring at him – just like he’s staring back at her. His hand eases past the line of her underwear, slowly, carefully and MJ bites down into her bottom lip. In less than a second, he’s going to feel how ridiculously wet and desperate she is for him. In less than a second, she’s going to show him just how easy it is to get her worked up – and it’s all because of his stupid tongue and stupid boy parts.

His fingers drag across her slit, wetness on his fingertips – and she can see it in his face, the realisation that this is what he’s done to her. “Christ, MJ.” His forehead drops to her shoulder with a groan and he presses a kiss to the smooth skin of her shoulder. “You’re killing me here.”

Okay, and stupidly – pride fills her at that. Because yeah, Peter might be about to ruin her for all other forms of relationships because she’s stupid in love with him, but – she can ruin him too.

Arching her hips up, she tugged on his hair again and he gets the message – sliding two fingers inside her easily, crooking up without even thinking.

She might black out a little, moan in a way that should embarrass her but god, it feels good. He feels good. And this is so much more than the time she let Bobby Demarco finger her during her free period in the back of the library, against the stacks because she just couldn’t wrap her brain around Bronte. That had been fun, sure, and the orgasm was enjoyable but this? With Peter? This is so much more.

This is fire boiling her blood, sending it singing through her veins. This is… love. This is gasoline and fire, the two of them coming together, blazing, setting the world on fire. (It’s intense. It’s more intense than she thinks she can handle and not just because of the vodka in her system. Because those kind of feelings – that’s. That’s forever. That’s not just a meaningless fuck in high school, or puppy love or anything that hormonal teenagers go through.

That’s **real**.)

But she doesn’t think of it, can’t think of it when his fingers quirk just like that, pressing against a particularly sensitive spot inside her – her mouth falls open, back arching, a moan falling from her lips.

“God, you sound fucking gorgeous.” He mutters into the skin of her neck and she chuckles breathlessly.

She hooks a leg around his hip, arching for a different angle. “Less talking, more fucking.”

His teeth nip at her neck and she whimpers, heat flashing through her. (So, it’s possible she might be into Peter Parker biting her. Possibly.) “Bossy.”

“I just know what I want.” That sounds far too breathless. God, what is going to do to his ego?

He chuckled darkly into her neck, and before MJ can even blink, Peter’s fingers crooked inside of her, his wrist arching up and she – blanks.

“Is this what you want?” He muttered, pressing another kiss right next to her nipple, before biting down, working another mark into her.

“Christ – Peter –“ It’s too much and not enough, his fingers working in and out of her, quirking against her, dragging across sensitive spots she hasn’t ever been able to work like he’s working now. “ _God_.”

“Sure, you can call me that.” Peter smirked.

MJ half-heartedly swipes at his shoulder, but Peter merely grabs her hand, intertwining their fingers together – before he locks her arm above her head. (Yeah – she’s into that too. Damn him.) His pace picks up, brutal and before she knows it, sweat beads along her forehead, her gasps coming twofold.

“Kiss me.”

And he does because he’s Peter and she’s MJ and they’ve always been inevitable. She comes when his lips press against hers, fingers working inside her, thumb pressing brutally against her clit. Colour explodes behind her eyes as she screws them shut and even though the stimulation borders on too much too much too much – he works her through, bringing her down.

Through half-lidded eyes, soft pants and one of her hands still tangled in his hair, she watches as he pulls his fingers from her, ducking them into his mouth, sucking them clean.

Yeah. She’s so fucked.

Peter stands after the fact, reaching for his shirt and passing it over to her and she smiles softly – rarely, - pulling the soft fabric over her head. (It smells like him and like the brand of soap is Aunt uses.)

After a moment’s hesitation, MJ bites at her lip, tugging off her jeans and curling up on the bed. Peter doesn’t go far – laying down next to her, arm slung over her hips, nose pressing into her cheek. The orgasm she just had was good – leaving her sleepy and stated and warm and full, but – this might be better. For a moment, she doesn’t say anything, just letting her eyes rake over the ceiling before glancing at the boy next to her.

Peter Parker. Spiderman. Enigma, nerd and all around dork but – he’s hers.

He seems to realise she’s staring at his eyes crook open slightly.

Her fingertips itch – what she wouldn’t give for a pencil and her sketchbook right now, to draw him like this. This, where he doesn’t seem to have the weight of Spiderman on his shoulders, where the bruises from his last battle to save their city have faded into soft yellow splotches across his ribs.

(She used to only like sketching people in crisis – found that they made so much more of an interesting subject than people who posed for it. They were natural, raw and real like that but Peter like this… yeah, that feels pretty real too.)

“What are you thinking about?” He murmurs, eyes crinkling around the edges. If she focuses hard enough she can the soft dusting of freckles along his nose.

MJ shook her head, shifting closer, hooking one leg around his hip. “I was – thinking I’d like to draw you. Like this.”

He pressed a kiss into her hair. “Like what?”

“Free. Open. Honest.” Her lip tugs on her bottom lip, still swollen from minutes before. “Mine.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything and MJ wonders if she’s pushed it too far – it was still so raw and new and shiny; but Peter merely curls his fingers into her hair, massaging at her scalp. “Yours.” He hummed. “I like the sound of that.”

**Author's Note:**

> can y'all tell i pretty much exclusively listened to young god by halsey for this fic? 
> 
> (and if anyone is curious, the book MJ reads here in an isolated incident by emily maguire, a highly recommended book from myself about media, grief, murders, violence against women & shitty patriarchal values. such a powerful and intense book, i consumed the thing in two days.)


End file.
